


when the wicked came upon me

by kingtear



Series: unchangeable firmament [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Cannibalism, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, M/M, Victor Hannibal, Victor Will, do i even have to tag that, warning: all tags implicit from these 2 fandoms apply
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:47:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28654479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingtear/pseuds/kingtear
Summary: Will wins the 56th Hunger Games. Hannibal, an infamous Victor from District One, has been watching.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: unchangeable firmament [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2099988
Comments: 12
Kudos: 159





	when the wicked came upon me

**Author's Note:**

> it’s hard for me to envision will and hannibal as teenagers, so let’s just say in this AU the Reaping takes places from ages 16-24

“I present to you the winner of the 56th Hunger Games: William Graham!” 

Cheers and applause roll through the crowd like thunder, accompanied by the staccato clicks of a hundred shutters. Glitter and sparks dash into the sky in a shower of gold. Will tries to smile for the cameras and see beyond the rain of blood.

“Let’s all enjoy the highlight reel,” purrs Lounds, flicking her fiery curls over one shoulder. She leans in close as if to tell him a secret, “William here gave us quite the show.”

Clips of his kills light up the enormous screens, 360 degrees of surround-sound death. The HD video clips are less vivid than his own memory — and they’re wrong. They show him as an urban hunter, stalking his prey through the ruins of a metropolis, lurking in the shadows of alleyways and slinking into bedrooms. There’s no sign of the madness and fear that plagued him at the start: the many hours he spent staring into nothingness, the shuddering cries with which he awoke at night. The Will on-screen is deliberate, powerful. He’s shed the skin of society and become an effortless predator.

He watches himself slit Hobbs’ throat, lobotomize Stammets, tear into Cordell’s face with gnashing teeth. Blood pools beneath his tongue and in the lines of his palm, etchings of an ephemeral horror. Yet perhaps it isn’t the videos that are wrong, but his memory — he doesn’t remember smiling like that.

.

.

.

The Victor’s Ball is extravagantly awful. The decor matches Will’s gown: silver silk drapes the banquet hall from wall to ceiling and the only sources of light are tiny electric candles stitched into the fabric. Everyone is high or drunk and stumbling into one another, falling onto crystal chaises and cooing at the fifty-foot-long shark tank that serves as the refreshments table. At least seven people have propositioned Will for sex, two of which were for an orgy, and he just barely manages to wriggle out of President Verger’s slimy grip with a flimsy excuse of eating cake. Will escapes to a dark corner with a piece of the aforementioned dessert. The cake may have diamonds in it. Will stares at the jewels twinkling in the layer of frosting.

“They’re synthetic.” 

Will looks up from his slice. “Right,” he says, hoping that’s the end of it. 

No such luck. “Congratulations on your victory. It was well-earned.”

“Sure.”

“Ah, I forgot to introduce myself. How rude of me. I’m—”

“Hannibal Lecter,” Will finishes, and in a tone that suggests the exact opposite, says, “Charmed.”

“You know me,” says Hannibal, redundantly. He’s District One’s most famous victor, arguably the most famous victor period. He ate a piece of every single one of his kills, usually an organ, crafting them into absurdly elaborate dishes right in the middle of the arena. One third of the tributes in his game died at his hand, giving him the second highest kill count of all time. The highest is Will.

“You know that I do. Everyone does. I’m not here to stroke your ego and play your game, whatever it is.” 

“I was not seeking your validation, Mr. Graham.”

“Good. Because I don’t find you that interesting.”

Everything about Hannibal (everything Will has seen,  _ sees _ now) suggests that he should be homicidally offended at Will’s blatant lack of manners. Instead, his mouth curves into an expression of open delight. 

“You will.”

.

.

.

Will dreads returning to District Four. He would request to skip it on the Victory Tour if he knew that it was a possibility. As it is, a victor’s return to their home district is the most anticipated stop on the agenda. There’s no way he can avoid it. Fortunately, he has eleven other districts in between himself and the judging eyes of home. 

Unfortunately, first up is District One. Will steps off the train to a gaggle of reporters and, more notably, the most senior Victor. Will doesn’t have much of an escort for Districts One and Two, only a tablet and digital instructions. The victors of the Career districts are trusted to take the reins.

“We meet again,” says Hannibal, bending slightly to kiss his hand. 

To Will’s utter humiliation, his heart stutters. Hannibal is strikingly handsome, even more so today in a sharp herringbone coat and crimson scarf. His lips leave a faint red mark where they pressed to Will’s skin.

“I’m not a woman,” Will says, with as much dignity as he can muster while blushing.

“I’m quite aware of that.” Hannibal releases his hand and steps back. His eyes travel the length of Will’s body, his outfit: all-black, fitted to his legs but loose and boxy in the torso, equipped with plentiful pockets and straps in an escalation of peacekeeper gear. “An unconventional style, but immaculate nonetheless.”

“I look like a wannabe soldier,” Will mutters, conscious of the many ears around him. He doesn’t want to get his stylist executed.

“You look dangerous.”

“I’m not.”

In lieu of arguing, Hannibal lifts an eyebrow and offers his arm. After a beat, Will takes it.

They walk the length of District One’s station, smiling genially at reporters and tittering fans. Will imagines them all melded into the marble columns that punctuate the architecture or encased into statues, expressions of voyeuristic glee captured forever.

A white limousine awaits them outside the white building, the perimeter of which is lined with dozens of white roses bushes.

“Your district is very obsessed with purity,” remarks Will after they settle into the vehicle. He sits in close proximity to the alcohol selection.

Hannibal reclines across from him and nods. “Innocence is the greatest luxury of all.” 

“Right. So innocent, the way Careers train and volunteer to murder other children.”

“Indeed. There is a charming naivete to it all. Like baby birds at the precipice of a cliff, they know not the danger that lies beneath them.” Hannibal’s gaze turns sly. “And Mr. Graham, did you not also volunteer?” 

“I’m not a Career. I didn’t train for it. I didn’t want it.”

“To some extent, you must have.”

“I did it to save my friend.” He remembers the way Jack turned ashen and clutched Bella a little tighter. The last few months with his fiance, terminally ill, ripped away by a slip of paper. How cruel the world was. Will took one look at them and raised his hand.

“So it was a selfless and noble act of sacrifice.”

Will clenches his jaw and reaches for the whiskey. His lack of agreement is answer enough.

“There is no need to hide yourself anymore. The world has already seen your true self.”

“No,” says Will, sharply, looking Hannibal in the eye, “they haven’t.”

Hannibal’s lips turn up, a red bow of amusement. “Perhaps not.”

“I doubt they’ve seen you, either.”

“Few people desire to look. Fewer still are capable of it.”

Will takes a long drink of whiskey. “You think I am?”

“I believe you already have. You and I are just alike.”

“I didn’t make meals out of my victims,” says Will, though that is at least partly untrue. He had bitten off Cordell’s flesh and  _ swallowed _ . 

Hannibal inclines his head, allowing the lie to pass. “I speak of a greater kinship than just that. I sensed it the moment I saw you at your Reaping. You were beautiful.”

Will grips his glass, hard, to still his trembling hands. He snarks, “Love at first sight? That’s a bit banal, isn’t it?”

“There is nothing ordinary about the two of us,” says Hannibal, achingly soft as he gazes at Will.

Will averts his eyes and says nothing for the remainder of the drive.

.

.

.

It has been arranged for Hannibal to host Will for the duration of his stay. He resides in the largest home in the Victors’ Village, a grand mansion that is mostly columns and windows. Unsurprisingly, the interior is deeply disturbing.

“Couldn’t get permits for human skulls?” says Will, eyeing the mound of animal skulls atop the dining table.

“Murder is frowned upon in District One,” Hannibal says without missing a beat.

Will follows him into the kitchen. He’s already put away his belongings (i.e. tossed his bag on the floor) in Hannibal’s impeccably decorated guest bedroom. “What’s for dinner?”

“Intriguing choice for a follow-up question.”

“Don’t read into it.”

Hannibal begins extracting ingredients from a steel beast of a fridge. “I am surprised that you’ve agreed to partake in a home-cooked meal from me. Pleased, but surprised.”

“Well you are famous for your dinner parties.” Wealthy Capitolians paid small fortunes to experience the exotic and titillating privilege of eating a meal cooked by Hannibal the Cannibal. There was a sick allure to it — sometimes, he even cooked with donated human flesh. “But I’m counting on the fact that it isn’t easy to get long pig on such short notice, so it won’t be one of  _ those  _ dinners.”

Hannibal smiles and pulls out a slab of meat. “It certainly isn’t. Such superficial gatherings could never match up to a meal with you, Mr. Graham.”

“Call me Will,” he says, tired of being reminded of his father.

“Call me Hannibal.”

“I’ve never even said your name.”

“Precisely,” says Hannibal, voice improbably close.

Will blinks, surprised to find himself a mere foot away from Hannibal, one maneuver away from pinning him to the counter. Will clears his throat and reroutes to the other side of the kitchen island.

“I think I’ll wait in the dining room. I trust you have things handled here.”

“Be my guest,” says Hannibal with a disarming, pleased smile.

.

.

.

For dinner, Hannibal serves stuffed pork tenderloin with a pomegranate maple glaze. He watches with undisguised curiosity as Will takes his first bite.

Will knows what pork tastes like. He looks Hannibal in the eye, chews once, twice, and then swallows.

.

.

.

There is a ceremony. In the midst of a sparkling marble colosseum, Will shakes the hands of the other District One victors and accepts their congratulations in the form of single white lilies. By the end of the procession he has eight flowers in his hands, and he ties them into a bouquet before tossing them into the audience. A young girl, barely pubescent, with wide brown eyes catches them and nearly swoons with excitement. It’s said to be good luck for her future game.

Afterward comes a gala at the mayor’s estate where Will and the other victors rub shoulders with the district’s elite. The champagne flows and Will indulges liberally to distract himself from the violent thoughts that simmer when he’s faced with corrupt, pandering puppets. Around midnight he goes in search of a restroom and upon finishing up, decides that the lot of them can go to hell. He stumbles down the hall and out into the brisk night.

The estate sits atop the highest point in the district, higher still than even the Victors’ Village. The rest of the district shines beneath the moonlight like a sea of pearls. It’s blinding. Craving the peace of darkness, Will meanders in the direction of the garden.

He isn’t at all surprised when Hannibal falls in step with him.

“May I join you?”

“Haven’t you already?”

Hannibal touches his arm, and Will turns to face him. The moon glows behind his head, a celestial crown. He’s carved not of marble but of bone, crisp and coldly enchanting.

“I would never force my company on you,” says Hannibal sincerely. “I do find you worthy of fascination, but also of respect. If you do not feel the same, then I apologize for hounding you for so long.”

It’s the most genuine anyone has ever been with him. Everyone Will knows has always treated him with a thin veneer of distrust, as if their primordial instincts sensed something off. Even his own father regarded him with caution.

“Okay,” says Will. “Thanks.”

Disappointment and hurt tighten the lines of Hannibal’s face. “I shall take my leave.”

Will grabs his wrist before he can go. He thumbs the soft bone beneath Hannibal’s flesh, presses into the vein. Perhaps it is the darkness or the drink that makes his eyes drop to Hannibal’s lips, that make him murmur, “Don’t go.” More likely it is long-smothered loneliness clawing its way out of his chest, blooming into hope and desire. 

Hannibal shudders and places a hand on his waist, drawing their bodies together. It’s an luxurious warmth, and Will presses closer until they’re aligned from hip to chest. 

“I see you, Hannibal,” says Will, thinking of blood in his mouth, of the way he licked his teeth clean. “Do you see me?”

“Yes,” breathes Hannibal, “and you are terribly lovely, my dear Will.”

Then he kisses him, a crown of moonlight enveloping them both.

.

.

.

Against Will’s better judgement, he falls into bed with Hannibal. He is an unexpectedly tender lover; he kisses Will until his lips are swollen and sucks red spots into the pale column of his throat, the press of his mouth intoxicatingly gentle. After Will whines and arches against Hannibal, leaving wet smears on his belly, Hannibal pins his hips to the bed and laps at his cock with worshipful enthusiasm. He goes loose and pliant when Will grows impatient and threads his fingers into Hannibal’s hair and tugs him down, thrusting roughly into his mouth. 

When Will comes, Hannibal swallows his seed and looks at him after with an expression of blissful gratitude. His lips are shiny and red and there’s a smear of fluid in the corner where Will’s spent overflowed.

“Come here,” Will orders, and pulls him up to lick it off.

He wraps one hand around Hannibal’s neck and the other around his cock, jerking him with quick strokes. When Hannibal groans into his mouth, Will stops and pushes him down against the bed. In for a penny, in for a pound. 

“I want to taste you,” Will says, breathless with want.

“Please,” rasps Hannibal.

Unable to resist, Will kisses him again. “You beg so prettily,” says Will, and flips him onto his stomach.

A full body shudder runs through Hannibal when he realizes Will’s intention. He raises his hips so Will can slide a pillow beneath, raising the curve of his ass. Will grips the lovely flesh and kneads, leaning to kiss down from spine to tailbone. He spreads Hannibal’s cheeks — at the first graze of his tongue, Hannibal gasps. Will licks at him, hungry and relentlessly, dipping into his hole and relishing in the taste of him, his skin, his insides, his everything. Hannibal ruts helplessly against the pillow and moans, his breath coming out in little pants.

“Will,” he says, in the same tone one pleads to God, “Will.  _ Oh _ .”

Will shoves the pillow aside and gets a hand around Hannibal’s cock. He runs the flat of his tongue against Hannibal’s hole again and again, greedy kitten licks, as he grips his pulsing cock. Hannibal comes in a few strokes, seed spilling onto the silk white sheets. 

Will crawls up the bed and tugs Hannibal into his arms. They lie together in a tangle of limbs, sweaty and sated. Will can’t recall the last time he indulged in the comfort of touch with another human being. He wonders when was the last time Hannibal did, and realizes it must not have been long ago. He remembers what it means to be a handsome Victor, even a dangerous one — perhaps especially so. Suddenly, he feels overwhelmingly protective of this man, who has offered up his heart so willingly. Will tightens the embrace and kisses his forehead.

Will says, a promise, “You’re mine.”

“And they will never touch you,” Hannibal finishes, gazing up at him adoringly.

.

.

.

The tour keeps them both busy, and Hannibal has additional meetings and obligations to attend, but they spend every free moment of Will’s remaining days in District One together. 

Hannibal teaches Will the proper way to hold a knife and slice meat. Will shows him how to craft lures and plays the piano for him; in District Four, he used to play old sea chanties for the fisherman in the bar by the docks. They were some of the few times people looked at him with carefree warmth. 

On the final night they host a dinner party together. With such close scrutiny on a new Victor like Will it’s impossible to hunt fresh meat, but neither of them mind. There will be opportunities in the future. For now, they take pleasure in the domesticity of preparing meals and serving guests as a unit. The mayor and the city council are invited, as well as fellow Victors and visiting Capitol officials who happened to be in the area. At the end of dinner, members of the press file into Hannibal’s home like jackals called to feed by some attention-hungry attendee.

Will is still rather abysmal at social gatherings and all things media-related, but Hannibal’s hand in his provides a center for reality. He squeezes Hannibal’s fingers and smiles for the cameras.

**Author's Note:**

> thought it would be fun to see a hunger games AU where they aren't tributes. hope you enjoyed!


End file.
